 | Lyrical and other poems |  |
INDIAN HUNTER'S SONG.
The warrior hunter's love?
Then will he shoot the wild red-deer for thee,
As he bounds through the blossomless grove,
With his antlers thrown back and his bright hoofs of steel,
On high scarcely deigning the green earth to feel.
With me to the valley and grove,
Where sunshine shall light for ever the sky,
And watch the young buffalo rove—
And be my love and trim for me,
With rich variety of beads,
As Indian warrior needs,
The extreme love that the Indians have for these trifles, is too generally well known to need any further illustration. It is curious to see, how ingeniously they contrive to introduce them into every particle of their dress, in a variety of forms. I brought with me a belt of wampum, pouch and a couple of pair of moccasins, very richly studded with beads of various colours.
When comes the pale white man to see,
The ball-play's wild activity.
I had heard much of this amusement, but for a long time found it impossible to gratify my curiosity, and at length quite despaired of witnessing it. I was, however a spectator of the game, when I least expected it. During my journey through the Creek nation, a heavy thunder storm, coming on, my companion, Mr. F---, of Montgomery, Alabama, proposed that we should leave the too exposed main road, where we were in much danger from the lofty trees, for the shelter of a growth of small pines, at some little distance. We then discovered some two or three hundred indians of both sexes, who had met for the purpose of deciding a question of superiority in this game. The severity of the weather had caused them to discontinue their amusement, but desirous of distinguishing themselves before the “whiteman,” they immediately on our appearance renewed it. Of the nature of the game from the inclemency of the weather, I was little able to judge, save that it gave occasion to a display of some of that masculine power, so peculiar, to these Apollo's of the wilderness, and such as I could scarce conceive the attribute of humanity.
That the serpent unfailing to sting,
Has been bidden by thee far away,
On a distant wandering—
In search of the silver shod deer?
Oh fly, Indian maiden, Oh fly,
With me to the far western sky,
For the buffalo roves and the swift of foot is there.
| Lyrical and other poems | |